The Meating Room

by T F Muir

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t want to do that to him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘What’s wrong with me?’ She turned to look at him. ‘I mean, as fat as he is, he’s got a good heart, and he’d do anything for me. It’s just . . .’ She shook her head, then startled Gilchrist by grabbing hold of her breasts and wobbling them. ‘I mean, look at me. What do I have to offer? Big tits and a deaf son and a family you’d run a hundred miles from.’

  Gilchrist let several silent seconds pass. ‘You shouldn’t put yourself down, Jessie. You’re a good detective, one of the best. And I’ve seen you with Robert. You’re a great mum, too.’

  Jessie sniffed again.

  ‘In fact, you’re probably the best mum Robert’s ever had.’

  She chuckled. ‘You’re a right charmer.’

  ‘Other than Jabba, has anyone ever told you how attractive you are?’

  Her brown eyes glistened at that, almost pleading, and he saw in their reflection the hurt and pain she had suffered at the hands of others. Her fine nose and clear skin, and lips that could flash a ready smile, could be the dream of any model. But somewhere along the way, she had let herself go, to the point where she no longer had any confidence in her looks.

  She turned away and grabbed the door handle.

  He reached for her. ‘Look at me, Jessie.’

  But she swatted his hand away. ‘Come on. We’ve got work to do.’

  They entered the Office and walked up the stairs in silence.

  Stan almost jumped when he caught sight of them approaching his desk.

  ‘Steady on, Stan. You look nervous.’

  He ran a hand across his lips. ‘Anne Mills doesn’t know I have these.’

  ‘I thought you went to the bank and—’

  ‘We did, boss, but then she had a change of heart. She wouldn’t say why, but I think someone must have told her about Linda James’s murder. So now she’s thinking if Magner finds out she’s given the police these, then dying of cancer is the least of her worries.’

  ‘So you stole them?’ Jessie said.

  ‘Copied them.’

  ‘I’m not sure whether to say naughty boy or well done,’ said Gilchrist.

  ‘Don’t say anything until you’ve had a look.’ Stan clicked the mouse.

  Gilchrist watched the screen over Stan’s shoulder, conscious of Jessie standing on the other side, but keeping her distance. The speed with which her emotions could change – from madder than hell to insecure in a matter of seconds – never failed to amaze him.

  ‘The quality’s not the greatest,’ Stan said. ‘Our IT guys can try to improve them, but I think they’ll be on a loser. Right, here we go.’

  Gilchrist leaned closer.

  The image was of a group of people on a dance floor. Balls of coloured lighting in the background suggested it was a disco.

  ‘Recognise anyone?’ Stan asked, leaning back.

  Gilchrist took hold of the mouse, and concentrated on the screen.

  ‘You can zoom in,’ Stan suggested.

  Gilchrist moved the cursor over the dance floor and rested it on a couple caught in a frozen jive. Then on to a woman with a scowl on her face as if she had found half a grub in her maraschino cherry. But he was having difficulty establishing what had Stan so worked up.

  ‘Try the next image,’ Stan said.

  Gilchrist shifted the cursor to the right, clicked on the arrow, and an image slid on to the screen – same dance floor, different couple. This time he recognised Magner, slimmer by twenty years, hair longer, thicker and less blond. The press of their bodies and his hands on the woman’s backside left little doubt about what either partner had in mind.

  ‘Who’s he dancing with?’ Gilchrist asked.

  Jessie chipped in with, ‘Looks like he’s giving her a dry hump.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Stan said. ‘Try the next one.’

  A group of eight people seated at a table opened up on the screen, all seemingly oblivious to the photographer’s presence. An empty dance floor lay behind them, as if the DJ was taking a break. Gilchrist recognised Magner again – his photogenic good looks and white smile would have him standing out in any crowd. This time he was sitting beside an attractive brunette in danger of her breasts spilling from her low-cut dress.

  ‘Who’s she?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘Anne Mills.’

  In the seat on the other side of Anne sat a man who appeared to have his hand on the left breast of the woman beside him. The remaining four had their backs to the camera.

  ‘Is he doing what I think he’s doing?’ Gilchrist asked.

  Jessie leaned forward. ‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘They’re swingers.’

  Gilchrist glanced at her, then at Stan, who raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Keep going, boss.’

  Gilchrist was about to pull up the next image when he hesitated. He placed the cursor over the face of the man with his hand on his neighbour’s breast and zoomed in. As Stan had said, the images were of low quality, and he zoomed out, then in again, trying to strike the best balance.

  ‘Is that who I think it is?’ he asked.

  ‘Have a guess.’

  ‘Martin Craig?’

  ‘The Lib Dem MEP, boss.’

  ‘Are there more of him in here?’

  ‘Carry on, boss.’

  ‘Does he know about these photographs?’ Gilchrist asked.

  ‘Oh, he knows about them all right,’ Stan said. ‘He’s looking at the camera on a couple of them. And I bet he can’t wait to get his hands on them now.’

  ‘You think Magner’s blackmailing him?’ Jessie asked.

  ‘Don’t know for sure, but I’d be prepared to put a hefty bet on that he is.’

  ‘You’re not a gambling man,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Only when it’s odds on.’

  ‘If Magner’s blackmailing Martin Craig, that might explain Stratheden’s meteoric rise,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Precisely.’

  Stan’s nervousness – or maybe excitement – told Gilchrist he was still missing something. But nothing he had seen so far would suggest that el shito was about to hit el fano.

  So he pressed on.

  He opened up the next image – the same group of eight, but shot from the opposite side. Magner and his wife now had their backs to the camera. The glowing gantry of a busy bar filled the background. A topless woman shook cocktails. Back to the group: the groping man was now fondling his partner’s exposed breasts with vigour. No one else at the table seemed to notice, especially not Magner, who was giving his full attention to the woman on his right. Anne, to his left, seemed intent on filling a champagne flute from a bottle of Bollinger.

  Gilchrist placed the cursor on the faces of the opposite two couples and zoomed in a touch. One woman had a hand on her smiling partner’s lap beneath the table, leaving little for the imagination. Beside them, the other couple were deep into an intimate kiss.

  But still Gilchrist did not see what he was missing. He opened the next image.

  Same angle, same shot, but maybe five or ten seconds later than the previous image.

  The kissing couple were now smiling for the camera, arms around each other, the gleam in their eyes hinting at what was yet to come. As Gilchrist studied the image, he finally thought he saw what was making Stan so anxious. He leaned closer, then said, ‘I don’t believe it. It can’t be. Can it?’

  Jessie said, ‘What am I missing?’

  Gilchrist zoomed in on the man’s face, then shifted the cursor to the woman. ‘Is that his wife?’ he asked.

  ‘Could be,’ Stan said. ‘But he’s widowed now, isn’t he?’

  ‘Would someone please tell what’s got everyone’s knickers in a twist?’ Jessie pleaded.

  Gilchrist leaned back from the computer screen and ran a hand down his face. ‘You’re new to Fife,’ he said, ‘so you probably haven’t met him yet. But that man there’ – he nodded at the screen – ‘is our boss.’


  ‘The head potato,’ Stan confirmed.

  Jessie mouthed a Wow, then said, ‘Chief Constable Ramsay?’

  ‘Chief Constable Michael MacNairn Ramsay, QPM, to be more exact.’

  ‘And rumoured to be in line for a knighthood at the end of this year.’

  ‘And he knows Magner?’

  Gilchrist grimaced. ‘Intimately, by the looks of it.’

  CHAPTER 27

  They spent the next hour compiling a list of all the photographs, and the people who appeared in them. Seventy images in total, starting at the table, then moving to what appeared to be a private room where the business of free sex and wife-swapping began in earnest.

  They were able to identify with certainty only four of the eight: Magner and his wife, Anne; Martin Craig MEP, and his partner, as yet unknown – Craig had married late in life, the rumour being that he had done so to counter persistent accusations of being gay. But nothing in these images suggested Craig was anything other than a testosterone-fuelled heterosexual; Chief Constable Ramsay with a woman presumed to be his late wife, Jean. The fourth couple, a slim blonde – obviously dyed, or a wig – with dark-nippled breasts and a black bush that trailed in a thin line to her navel, and whose partner appeared to be more inebriated than the others, remained anonymous.

  Jessie suggested she might be a prostitute, as she was the only woman photographed in flagrante with all four men. Stan joked that he wouldn’t mind finding out if she was still available for hire, which earned him a fearsome scowl from Jessie.

  Of all the couples, Chief Constable Ramsay and his partner appeared the most shy, with Ramsay’s effort of intercourse with the dyed blonde being performed with his hand to his face. Ramsay’s partner was snapped with Magner’s penis in her mouth, and as Gilchrist worked through the images, he came to understand that Magner had been one step ahead of the others, maybe several, the end result of that evening’s fun being a file of photographs for future reference – read blackmail.

  The problem facing Gilchrist now was what to do with this information.

  None of them had any doubts that they had to report this. The Chief Constable’s relationship with the accused in an ongoing rape case – a man who also happened to be a suspect in a multiple-murder investigation – could not be ignored. How it had flown under the radar for all these years was the most troubling question.

  ‘It makes you wonder if Ramsay knows about these,’ said Gilchrist.

  ‘Maybe it’s not him,’ Jessie said, and when Gilchrist and Stan rounded on her, added, ‘Maybe he’s got a twin brother.’

  ‘Let’s not try clutching at straws,’ Gilchrist said. ‘This is dynamite. But we have a more immediate problem to resolve, which is that all this evidence has been obtained by false pretence, so is inadmissible in a court of law.’

  Stan scratched his head. ‘Sorry, boss. I just thought we should—’

  ‘Who else knows you have these?’ Gilchrist asked.

  Stan shook his head. ‘We’re it.’

  ‘Right,’ Gilchrist said. ‘We can apply for a warrant to gain access to Anne Mills’s safe-deposit . . .’ But another troubling thought hit him before he finished the sentence. ‘The application for a warrant to search Jason Purvis’s place was turned down.’

  ‘On what grounds, boss?’

  ‘Insufficient evidence,’ Gilchrist said, as he paced the room. ‘I was going to talk to Whyte and ask him to reapply for a warrant. But having seen these, I’m not sure I want to do that.’ He looked at Jessie. ‘You agree?’

  ‘You’re thinking that shit from above drops through the ranks?’ Jessie asked.

  ‘From the Chief Constable, down to God knows who,’ Gilchrist said. He thought of his recent run-ins with Greaves, and tried to convince himself that the Chief Super was under pressure to meet costs and budgets. In his heart of hearts, Gilchrist believed Greaves to be a man of integrity, but – and here was the problem – considering the decline in their relationship, could Greaves be trusted with this information?

  With resignation, Gilchrist thought not. ‘I don’t want to risk a warrant application reaching the eyes and ears of those above us,’ he said, nodding to Stan. ‘So you’re going to use that charm of yours, and advise Ms Mills that it’s in her best interests to hand the images over to the police.’

  ‘But she’s scared of what Magner might do,’ Jessie said.

  ‘No, she’s scared of what Magner’s man might do. So we need to take him out of the equation.’

  ‘Boss?’

  This was where it became fuzzy for Gilchrist. His instinct was urging him in one direction, while his logic was pushing him in another. He had no proof that Purvis was involved in the murder of Linda James, or the McCulloch massacre, or anything else linked to Thomas Magner. Purvis had not even made so much as a cameo appearance in the swinger images. But sometimes you just have to go with your gut.

  Besides, he had nothing else to go on.

  ‘It’s the same four couples in all of these photographs,’ he said. ‘But we’re missing the man behind the camera.’

  ‘Or woman,’ Jessie said.

  Gilchrist ignored the comment. ‘What if it’s Purvis?’

  Was that too much of a stretch of the imagination? Purvis and Magner worked on the rigs together, boyhood friends who had carried that friendship into adulthood? They looked so alike they could be brothers, even twins. Could they have played games with people, switched identities for their own benefit?

  ‘Here’s what we know,’ he said. ‘Purvis has a BMW registered in his name, identical to the BMW that killed Janice. It’s been lent to Jimmy Watson, or it hasn’t, depending on what you believe. And a pair of Rottweilers guard a barn at the rear of his property.’

  Just the mention of the dogs had Jessie wringing her hands. Stan returned Gilchrist’s look with an unblinking stare.

  ‘So I’m thinking that the BMW’s not in Europe with this Watson. It’s not even on the road. It’s hidden somewhere.’ He raised an eyebrow and held out his hands. ‘Any suggestions?’

  ‘Purvis’s barn?’ Stan said.

  ‘That’s what we’re about to find out,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Want me to organise a team, boss?’

  Gilchrist shook his head. ‘If Ramsay’s in any way involved, and if I’m right about Purvis, we might end up giving someone a heads up. So . . .’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Jessie said.

  ‘Yes, dear Jessica. I’m going to check out the barn first.’

  ‘Alone?’ Jessie asked. ‘What about the dogs?’

  ‘I’ll take care of them.’

  ‘Count me in, boss.’

  ‘I’m about to break the law, Stan. You’ve got your career to think of. You said you only gamble when it’s odds on. And this is anything but.’

  ‘Then it’s time I learned how to take a bit of a punt, isn’t it?’

  Gilchrist groaned. If Purvis caught the pair of them on his property, at night, breaking into the barn without a warrant, it would be the end of both their careers. But if this long shot proved to be correct, then Purvis had a lot of explaining to do.

  ‘That makes two of us,’ Jessie said.

  Gilchrist jerked a look at her. ‘Out of the question.’

  ‘I’m not asking. I’m telling.’

  ‘You’re forgetting who the senior officer is here.’

  ‘And you’re forgetting that the pair of you are about to break the law. If you go ahead with your half-baked scheme, I’ll arrest both of you.’

  Stan chuckled with disbelief.

  Gilchrist returned Jessie’s stare. ‘You’re scared of the dogs.’

  ‘You said you’ll take care of them.’

  Gilchrist continued to hold her hard gaze. She didn’t flinch. He thought of abandoning the idea and just initiating another formal warrant application. But that would probably be refused or – worse – granted, only for them to discover that his instinct was wrong and the car was not on the property.

  He
really had only one option. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But wipe that smug look off your face.’

  Jessie ran the flat of her hand from forehead to chin to reveal a scowl.

  Gilchrist shook his head, but in a strange way he was pleased that Jessie had wriggled in. He could use her as a lookout, or as back-up in the event of something going wrong.

  ‘We’ll do it this evening,’ he said. ‘And I’ll take care of the dogs.’

  ‘How’re you going to do that?’ Jessie asked.

  ‘Trust me,’ he said. ‘Then Stan will use his locksmith skills to pick the padlocks for the barn.’

  ‘Didn’t know you were a safe-cracker, Stan.’

  ‘Just plain old locks,’ he said. ‘Nothing fancy.’

  ‘Then we enter the barn and find the car,’ Gilchrist said.

  ‘Then what?’ Jessie asked. ‘We call the cops?’

  ‘No, we photograph it. After that, we’re home and dry.’

  ‘I’ll bring my new camera, boss.’

  But Jessie persisted. ‘And how do you explain our presence in Purvis’s barn?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll think of something. But we need you as a lookout.’

  ‘Why can’t Stan be the lookout?’

  ‘Because you don’t like the dogs.’

  ‘And Stan does?’

  ‘No one does,’ Gilchrist said, ‘but I saw how you reacted last time. And if Purvis steps outside, we need to know about it. Maybe he checks up on the dogs every night before going to bed. Maybe he stalks around his boundary. Who knows.’

  ‘Won’t the barn have an alarm system?’ Stan asked.

  Gilchrist had already dismissed that. ‘It’s about two hundred yards from the cottage. It would cost a fortune to run wires all that way to provide electricity.’

  ‘Wi-fi, boss. They have that now. Security cameras and alarms that work off wi-fi. No wires, just clip them on and set them up on your laptop. Motion activated. Not sure of the cost, but I’m thinking for less than a few hundred quid you could set webcams and motion sensors all over the place.’

  Gilchrist felt a hot rush of doubt, then found the answer. ‘Not with the dogs running around, Stan. They’d set off motion sensors all night long.’